What's Cooking?
by animal2134
Summary: Le Beau decides to quit cooking after he recieves too many bad reviews of his meals. But the boys are having trouble cooking for themselves.


A steamy aroma wafted through the compound on a particularly chilly Wednesday. The guards outside pulled their ice encrusted scarves over their red faces, shielding themselves from the driving ice pellets. The barbed wire sparkled in the snow, making Stalag 13 appear almost beautiful. The smell caught the attention of a particularly round guard who peered across the yard at a certain cocky American colonel's barracks.

Inside Barracks 2 it was relatively cheery. Men from various armies and units sat around a small table idly chatting. A solemn faced African American sergeant sat on his bottom bunk reading. A little Frenchmen wearing his usual chef hat leaned over a pan simmering on the stove. Stirring the concoction he nodded his satisfaction and took it off the fire.

"What ya got there Le Beau?" a lanky Englishman asked from his perch on his top bunk.

"I have a special treat for us today," the little man responded from behind the stove.

"Boy, I hope it's as good as the dinner last night," a bright eyed Carter exclaimed.

"Even better," Le Beau placed a tray in the middle of the table. "Voila, escargot!"

"Isn't that snails, Le Beau?" Kinch asked looking over the little upturned shells.

"I raised them myself," Le Beau gazed at them tenderly. "But," he picked one up. "They taste too good!" And with a large display he sucked the cooked snail out of its shell and smacked his lips approvingly. "Try one."

All the men in the room looked at the Frenchman with absolute disgust. It would have been possible to hear a pin drop in the room.

"You've got to be joking," the Englander hopped down from his bunk. "You know for all you're culinary what-ya-call-its you French certainly have an interesting diet. No way and I going to eat slugs."

"Well English meals are no better," Le Beau defended. "Black pudding for example."

"That 'appends to be a marvelous dish!" Newkirk spluttered.

"What's black pudding?" Carter asked still staring down at the tray. "It's not snails is it?"

"No," Newkirk smiled. "We wouldn't put up with that rubbish. No, black pudding is dark sausage filled with animal blood and other tid bits like barley or oats." He got a dreamy look on his face, "my ma' she'd make it be'er than anyone in town, she did."

"I'm sure your dinner isn't bad, Le Beau." Kinch walked over and picked one up. "Here goes." He sucked one up, grimacing, "It's kinda chewy."

"All right!" Le Beau threw up his hands. "You don't like my food? Fine, I'm done! You make your own food from now on!"

Colonel Hogan walked into the room, "What's going on?"

"Le Beau made us escargot," Kinch offered.

"If the Germans fed us that I would report it to the Red Cross as cruel and unusual punishment," Newkirk added crossing his arms.

The door opened and in walked round Sergeant Schultz following his nose to the source of food. "Le Beau," he exclaimed walking up to the little cook, "what did you make today?"

"Escargot," Le Beau smiled happily and held the tray up to Schultz's nose. "Want some Schultzie?"

The guard's grin faded and he suddenly clutched his stomach staring at the snails. "Umm, I think I had enough to eat in the mess hall."

"This coming from the man who always begs for more?" Hogan pressed with a grin.

"Ja, Corporal Bornstedt cooked a very filling supper today. I just wanted to see if you were all present, and you are," he backed out of the door twice as fast as he came in.

When the door shut behind him the entire barracks was filled with laughter, all except for Le Beau.

"I mean it, I'm through!" he took off his chef hat and threw it to the floor.

"All right Le Beau, maybe we have been under appreciative of your cooking and you could use a break. We'll all pitch in right fellas?" Hogan looked for support.

"Alright," Newkirk relented.

"I make a mean flapjack," offered Carter.

"Well I hope you are all good cooks because I'm done for the war." Le Beau walked over and lay down on his bunk. "I can't wait to see what you all cook up for breakfast," he added smirking.

The morning was greeting by banging pots and pans as the men of Barracks 2 tried to make their breakfast while Le Beau sat watching them laughing.

"Now does this look right to you?" Newkirk asked Kinch.

"Is it supposed to look that black?" he responded peering into the pot on the stove.

"How the bloody do I know? I thought oatmeal was easy!"

"Well Carter's flapjacks aren't runny enough," Hogan said watching the boy. "Are you sure you use that much flour?"

"Yes sir colonel, I have the recipe memorized. It calls for 1 cup of water and 5 cups of flour. Or was that syrup? Yes sir I'm sure it's flour." He ladled some onto a frying pan. The flapjack started to spark and burn.

"Why's it doing that?" Kinch took a few steps back.

"Well I added a pinch of gunpowder for a little kick," Carter grinned. "I figured they needed them."

"Carter if we eat those we'll blow up!" Newkirk waved his spoon at the kid.

"Don't worry Newkirk, I'd pour water on you if you started to smoke," Hogan said grinning. "I think they're turning out all right Carter."

"Gee thanks Colonel."

"All right," Kinch picked up the pot of oatmeal. "It's done."

"Great," Newkirk scooped some out and tried to put some into an awaiting bowl but the oatmeal stuck to the spoon. "What's wrong with this stuff?" he asked shaking the spoon to no avail.

"Boy that stuff will really stick to your ribs won't it?" Carter laughed.

Newkirk grabbed another spoon and scraped the meal off into the bowl. "There now," he picked the bowl of blackened oatmeal and held it up proudly. "Anyone want it?"

No one moved a muscle.

"Well don't come all running at once," grumbled the Englander, and took a bite himself. His eyes grew wide as he quickly forced the substance down. "Yeah Kinch," he coughed, "I think it's burnt."

Le Beau chuckled from his overlooking bunk, "At the rate you guys are going, you'd better pray the war ends soon before you starve! Like I told you, I'm through cooking."

"Leave off!" grumbled Newkirk.

"Hey colonel, is there any way we could swipe some food from Klink's quarters?" Carter asked scraping his flap jacks from the pan. The cakes popped and sizzled shooting flour across the room.

"It's worth a try," Hogan admitted ducking behind the stove. "Eating Kraut food is better than avoiding attack from our own breakfast!"

Newkirk and Carter were sent to sneak food from the officer's mess on the double. They returned with various food stuffs and a case of wine.

"One can never 'ave too much," Newkirk stated taking a swig.

"How much food did you guys take?" Kinch asked looking over the boxes.

"Don't worry," Carter reassured him, "the Krauts have so much food they won't miss a couple boxes."

This statement was soon tested when Schultz soon came to pay the men a visit. "Colonel Hogan, Kommandant Klink is very upset. He wants to have a word with you."

"All right Schultz, let's see what Old Blood 'n Guts wants this time." Hogan stood up from the table and placing his cap on his head walked across the yard followed by his plump escort.

Hogan stepped into the outer office and immediately walked over to the blond secretary who was busy filing papers. "Hi Hilda Honey," he grabbed the girl and kissed her forehead.

"Colonel Hogan!" started the girl. "The Kommandant wants to see you now."

"I know, the friendly neighborhood guard came to see me," he jerked his head at Schultz who stood by the door averting his eyes.

"You'd better go and see him," Hilda advised.

"Yeah," Hogan sighed, turning for the door.

Schultz opened the office door for him and walked in behind the American. "Colonel Hogan, Heir Kommandant."

"Very well Schultz, dismissed." Klink saluted him behind his desk.

"What did you want me to see me about Kommandant?" Hogan asked plopping his hat on the desk.

Klink picked up the cap and tossed it to the American. "Colonel Hogan, today we had an interesting occurrence in the officer's mess."

"You caught Wagner in the schnapps again." Hogan slapped his leg. "I told you to keep an eye on him Kommandant."

"It was not Wager, we lost six crates of food and one crate of wine."

"Oh," Hogan scratched his head, "well, where did you last see them?"

Klink slammed his fist on his desk. "They were not lost, they were stolen!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, where else could they be?"

"And they disappeared without a trace?"

"Yes."

"Well then Kommandant," Hogan leaned over the desk to look the thin monocled man at eye level. "It's not thieves."

"What else could it be?"

"I heard about these from Grayson, transfer from Stalag 4, it was full of them."

"Full of what?"

Hogan paused letting the anticipation grow, "Great Stalag Swiping Rats, G.S.S.R. for short. They invade Stalags and steal food crates without leaving a trace."

"And you think they are living here?" Klink laughed, "Impossible, I run the cleanest Stalag in all of Germany, there are no rats here."

"Oh they don't live in the Stalag Kommandant, they live in the woods and sneak in and out when they please."

Klink nervously adjusted his monocle, "What do we do?"

"There's only one repellant for G.S.S.R.," Hogan continued in his dramatic voice. "Paint giant cat pictures all over the food crates, they won't go near them."

"Thank you Hogan!" Klink said relived, turning toward the door, "Schultz!"

The door swung open and the sergeant marched in.

"Take Hogan back to his barracks and then I want you to paint cats all over the food crates."

"Cats, Heir Kommandant?"

"Yes Domkomf, how else can we expect the G.S.S.R. to stop stealing food? I want it done at once!"

Schultz saluted, "Jabowl Heir Kommandant!"

Hogan joined him walking out of the office. "Cats?" he asked the colonel.

"You know something Schultz," Hogan grinned. "It's a crazy war."

A few days later, peace had still not come to Barracks 2.

"I won't do it, I won't!"

"Come on Le Beau," coaxed Hogan. "We promise to complement your every meal."

"No," the little man crossed his arms. "I said no, and I mean it."

The door slammed, announcing the presence of Klink. "Colonel Hogan,"

"Yes?" the officer approached him. "What can I do for you in our humble abode?"

"Please Hogan," he adjusted his monocle. "I just received word from General Burkhalter. He is coming in two days for an inspection. I, ah, was hoping your chef could prepare something special for his arrival."

"I'm sorry sir, but we're giving Le Beau some time off."

"Time off? I want a good meal for the general!"

"We will contribute our part don't worry."

"Alright," the commandant looked around the barracks. "Tomorrow I will come to inspect your samples of your meal ideas. That will be all."

The moment the door shut the barracks was in an uproar.

"Colonel, you can't expect us to cook for a general?" Kinch protested.

"Well, since Le Beau here is still refusing to cook, it looks like it's up to us. Alright men, everyone cook their favorite dish for Klink tomorrow, that's an order."

The next day Klink, as promised, returned to look at the dinner plans.

"Colonel Hogan, have you all done your part."

"Oh gladly, you know, I think there are some aspiring chefs in this barracks."

"Shall we see then?"

The men grabbed their pots and trays, stood at attention, and one by one, presented their dishes to Klink.

"All right Carter, what have you made?" The German leaned over his pot carefully.

"Well, I got this recipe from my cousins in Griffin, Georgia, sir. It's delicious frog legs."

"Frog legs?" Klink inquired.

"You wouldn't believe how hard it is to find frogs in a German winter, boy. I mean, sir."

"Frog legs, now I've seen everything," chuckled Schultz.

"Quiet!" ordered his commanding officer. "Now, Sergeant Kinchloe, what is your meal?"

"I made hot dogs," he said proudly, displaying his tray.

"Hot dogs," repeated Klink. "Hogan, you Americans eat very poorly. Frog legs and dog meat?"

"Only on special occasions," stated Hogan.

"Now Newkirk," the colonel moved to him. "Show me what you made."

"I think you will love this meal, sir," the Englander held up his, plate, "After all, we're both Europeans, none of that Yankee food. I made kidney pie."

"I see," Klink sniffed the meal hesitatingly, "and it is made out of kidneys?"

"The very best I could find."

Klink made a face, "Colonel Hogan I don't think any of these meals would please the general."

"Just a minute Colonel," Hogan pulled out a bag. "You haven't seen what I made." He pulled out a sandwich. "A good old PB and J sandwich!"

"Hogan, I can't feed the general a simple sandwich!" Klink sighed looking round the room. "It's amazing, no one made some good sauerkraut or even potato pancakes. What is this war coming to? First the rats, then this."

"Oh speaking of rodents," Carter piped up. "If you want I have a real good recipe for squirrel."

"Never mind! I'll have the camp cook make something up!" Dismissed!" Klink stormed out of the barracks.

"You guys are pathetic," Le Beau groaned from his bunk. "I'm tired of seeing your failed cooking attempts. From now on it's time for a real culinary expert to take over."

"You mean, you'll cook again?" Carter asked hopefully.

"Why not," Le Beau shrugged and put on his apron. "I'd probably suffocate from all the smoke you make while you're cooking anyway. So," he jumped down to the floor. "Any requests for dinner?"

"I got one," Newkirk piped up, "can you make a nice girl come for dinner with all the trimmings?"

Le Beau promtly hit him on the head with his hat.

"Louis," Hogan grinned, "it's good to have you back."


End file.
